


Find the Right Words

by JennaMoon



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing, Camping, Cockatrices, M/M, Monster Slaying, Possessive Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Possibly Unrequited Love, Realization, Scenting, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Sweet, Taverns, Wounds, but he's trying not to be, geralt in a bathtub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:41:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22353538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaMoon/pseuds/JennaMoon
Summary: Geralt's greatest fear has come true; he is in love with Jaskier, and his instincts have just found out.Courting mishaps? Great smells? Jaskier struggling to write good lyrics?Many things happen when trying to find the right words to say 'I love you'.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 66
Kudos: 1302





	1. Forests, feelings and food

He sat by the fire. A raging, roaring fire, golden bellied and speckled in the dusts of orange. A stick, long and thin, he used to prod and provoke the dancing licks of flame upon the air. Heat well-thanked, for the day had been wet and long – hours of trudged through mud. Some, on horseback; during the quieter hours when the wind did not sing her wailing ballad. To be sat a-top a creature with no cover was always such a unforeseen fatality. No, it was best beside the horse, a break between harsh winds and human flesh, as wool-clad as it was.

A wooded patch came as great relief – the Witcher had wanted to make it there before nightfall. Alone, he could have made it by mid-afternoon, the light of day acting as a plentiful resource. However… ‘Geralt, i-it’s freezing!’, ‘Geralt, I’m dying!’ and ‘Geralt, my _shoes!_ ’ had been causes enough to stop their journeying.

His Bard was _not_ dying- the human was pedantic over clothing. Ludicrous silks and cambric. Too soft, easily teared. All very pretty on the young man, none actually fit for travelling outdoors. His shoes, as example, were turnshoes, dyed blue, embellished with tiny flowers.

They had holes ripped in the bottom twenty minutes into the journey.

By the time the Witcher had ‘dealt’ with his companion’s issues, dusk was beginning to settle like fine sand over the earth. He knew the woods were coming soon; he could smell the oak resin, taste the mint leaves that grew on the darker patches of mud, ready to be plucked and blanched in water, stored away… or chewed on, knowing Jaskier. He could make out the chirping of birds. Young, babies, hungry for the food within their mother’s mouth. The mother would make a fine meal for the two of them, boiled in mint water. Yes, they would have an alright evening.

A fire, a bird, sprig of mint and Jaskier, shaking in the confines of Geralt’s cloak. Geralt gave an amused smile. Not such a bad evening. Really.

“I’m glad to see my you find my dying _amusing_ , Geralt.” The bard bit, peeking out the worn hood. He looked small, smaller than usual, in that position. Geralt couldn’t help but laugh, a small noise from the back of his throat. He was in a jovial mood, all things considered. “And now, he laughs! The Gods did make me foolish, didn’t they?!” Jaskier had begun to stand up, shifting his weight onto the stump the bard had laid his lute against.

“Sit, Jaskier.” The Witcher murmured. Jaskier looked at the man, before huffing and crumpling back down, knees to his chest. Not that Geralt could see; the cloak was at least three sizes too big. “You’re not dying. If you were dying, I’d have left you on the road.”

“No you wouldn’t have!” That was true. If Jaskier were dying, Geralt would be pummelling the ground in despair, cursing the Gods. He couldn’t let the bard know that, however. Jaskier was making his way over, probably to tell him off, wiggle a finger in his face. If Geralt could have his way, he’d pull the bard onto his lap, untangle him out of that stupid cloak and be done with it. Alas, Geralt knew what would come if he were to get his way.

His bard walked over, looking like a childish illustration of a ghost. A hand appeared between the folds of rough wool, finger at the ready to waggle. Geralt saw their long, slender shape, the crack of the nail. They used to be perfect, shiny, neat. Nails are the first to be ruined on the road. Geralt’s were often filled with blood and flesh – if they grew long enough to collect prizes of his enemies defeat in first place. Jaskier must have noticed the long stare; he turned his glance down, too, for a moment. A blaze of despair wrecked his face for a moment, before switching back to a half-assed anger.

“Geralt, I’m not so sure if you’ve noticed, but my clothing is soaked! I’m hungry, I’m tired, my feet are sodden and blistered! And you, you sit there, content with being so… so at one, with the cold and all! And you have no care for my–”

“Take your shirt off.” He grumbled, using a hand to unclasp the stupid cloak. It puddled the ground, Jaskier an island in the centre. A confused, shivering island. “Well?”

“What on Earth- no, I will not take my shirt off, thank you!” He exclaimed, his soft eyes wide in disbelief. Geralt stood up, reaching out to unbutton the bard’s already torn jacket. Jaskier slapped his hand away, the two exchanging equally as shocked glances.

“Jaskier,” the Witcher growled, eyes tightening. The bard took a step back, hands up, against his chest.

“I-I’ll do it myself.” He whispered, hands working to undo the buttons on his jacket. His fingers worked quick, well-educated in the art of undressing. Geralt savoured the sight for just a moment, before searching in his bag. He pulled out a black shirt, tossing it at Jaskier. It joined the cloak on the ground, swaddling the feet of the bemused bard.

“Put it on, now.” Geralt said, taking the damp clothes out of Jaskier’s hands.

“But it’s yours, Geralt.” He wrapped his arms around his pale chest, sniffling.

“I’m aware. But you’ll catch a cold in… those, and I will not put up with the constant coughing.” He gruffed, always having an answer. Jaskier looked almost put out, but did as he was told. He looked like a particularly unflattering girl whose limbs had risen up before her womanhood had blossomed. With body hair. With a shave, and sleep, Geralt couldn’t help but think that his bard would fit in those darker halls, hidden within the twists and turns of streets within citadels and the like. He was quick to shake that nonsense out his head.

‘A bard is just a step up from a whore. Born a woman, you’d be guzzling the seed of men for your coin’, a particularly surly man had once said, apparently not a fan of Jaskier’s tales of adventure. His fist was curled, ready to hit his bard’s pretty face. Of course, the fool never stood a chance; Geralt grabbed the man’s wrist and broke it with a squeeze, before demanding Jaskier play.

Nobody else booed the bard that night, and Geralt listened as his younger counterpart sang the (exaggerated) deeds of the White Wolf.

He noticed how Jaskier was careful with his dancing and winking now. His joy, ruined by a random drunk. Humans never understood just how selfish they could be.

Geralt picked up the clothing on the floor. He passed the cloak back to Jaskier, ‘use it as a blanket’, and placed the bard’s jacket and shirt on the lowest branch of a thick, sprawling tree. It was the tree that was protecting them from the brunt of the rain, leaving only the lightest of drips to kiss the flesh.

There was a feeling of… embarrassment? Geralt wasn’t too sure. He could hear the bard’s racing heart, the catch of the warm breath between his lips, the flicker of his eyes closing, so slowly, a reopening in a sluggish wave.

The tent was already pitched, yet neither went to retire. The moment wasn’t over, or so it felt. Jaskier rustled with the sleeve of the shirt, tugged at the slipping collar. Geralt couldn’t help but stare, absently, thinking of everything and nothing all at once.

No, it wasn’t until a burst of wind broke through the defences of the tree that either of them made a move.

“I… I’m off to bed.” Jaskier had whispered, afraid to break the silence. At least, that’s what the quiver of his voice suggested. “Will you-?”

“Not yet,” Geralt spoke, eyes flickering to the bard’s face “soon. Need to plan.”

“Plan?”

“Plan.”

Jaskier was quick to duck into the tent, leaving the flaps half open. Geralt listened as his companion muttered about leaving enough room for him. Geralt loved it when his bard would roll too close in his sleep, bury himself within the hard muscle of his chest. Geralt would sometimes, if Jaskier was in deep enough sleep, return the embrace. Breathe in the scent of strawberries and oak, mint and ink. So close to that mind that could be so wise and so free, so wild and so educated.

He’d feign sleep if his bard was close to waking. Listen to the happy murmur that would leave his mouth. The way it transformed into a gasp. Usually, Jaskier would pull away, leaving Geralt cold. Once or twice, however, he had been brave; tightened the grip on Geralt’s shoulders as to pull himself closer. Mumbled loving songs. Geralt would be so still, for his bard, so careful to imitate the deepest sleep a man could have. He would do it until his internal clock began to yell about keeping time, needing to find the next hard-done-to bastard with coin, or happy enough tavern for his lark to sing. He’d let out a stirring groan and nearly flinch from how fast Jaskier would rip himself away from his side.

Once they were packing away the camp, Geralt would ask, coy, ‘how did you sleep?’. The squeak of his bard was adorable enough to make his heart soar.

Geralt sat in the wooded area, thinking. He considered this… routine of a sorts. How it made him feel, how he wished it made him feel. Soon, his thoughts turned exclusively to the relationship between Jaskier and his emotions.

Annoyance.

Frustration.

Amusement.

Worry.

Fear.

“Fuck.”

It was by the fire, now reducing itself to a smoulder, that Geralt of Rivia, Butcher of Blaviken, the White Wolf, realised the apex of the emotions.

Geralt of Rivia was _in love_ with his bard.


	2. Geralt, Gore and Glory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They find an inn. Geralt plans. Jaskier sings.

Geralt was a strategist. He didn’t throw himself into battle with monsters on a whim, afterall. He needed bait, potions, to track, to question, to complete a million other quests before doing the thing he originally wished to do. Planning, he told himself, was a gift he had acquired through years of practice and exercise.

So why was his fucking brain ceasing to be useful now?

He could accept, finally, how he was feeling. _In love._ With Jaskier, of all the beings on the realm. _Jaskier._ Small, irritating, squishy, flamboyant. Human. Mortal. Short life-span. Probably going to die due to Geralt’s lapse in judgement, or run away once a large enough crisis beat some sense into the bard. _Jaskier_ , who had for all intents and purposes, forced himself into the Witcher’s life. And Geralt had, for some reason, allowed it. Why?

Because had loved the bard, subconsciously, from the bizarre ‘bread-in-his-pants’ comment.

“Fuck.” Geralt said, for the sixtieth time that day. He earned a look from the farmhand on the table next to him.

They’d reached the settlement around noon. Geralt hadn’t slept. He felt guilty, strangely enough. Now he knew his feelings, he couldn’t just slip next to the peacefully snoring man and coax him between his arms, like it was an anomaly, unregistered within the norms of their day. No, no. Now, it correlated. Feelings. Actions. Emotions. Relationships.

Geralt just stayed outside, in the barely intercepted rainfall, staring at a pile of blackened rocks. Thinking. Planning…

_‘Toss a coin to your Witcher’_ Jaskier was already at it, lute strumming and voice overtaking any conversation to be had. The reception to Jaskier’s barding varied. It greatly depended on the time of day, the types in the tavern, whether or not Geralt had actually done anything worth the coin. Which he hadn’t, yet, but he was working on it.

He just needed figure out this whole mess, first.

He was in love with Jaskier. Who was still in his shirt, looking absolutely… _No_. He needed to focus. “Fuck.” He murmured again. He turned to match the quizzical stare of the man next to him. He cleared his throat. “Anybody in the cow shit town having monster issues?” He asked.

Maybe a good ol’ fashioned monster hunt would clear his head, afterall.

As it turns out, a nearby cave, where the ‘sweetwaters’ or whatever the fuck it was the farmhand had gone on about ran, was overrun by a giant lizard. ‘A dragon!’ the moron had first said. Geralt scoffed, before settling on a price.

“Easy enough, old man. I’ll bring proof once the deed is done… Make sure the bard doesn’t follow me.” Geralt had said, not waiting for a reply from the man. He had his silver sword, his senses, a blade, if need be. _Easy_. Geralt already knew he’d spoken too soon.

Turns out, the cockatrice was actually three cockatrice. In one place. He took the first one out fairly okay, but his shoulder had been pecked into. His blade was covered in blood and guts and over visceral parts of a monster.

The mouth of the cave was thankfully wide, giving him the berth to move about freely, casting Aard like it was the only prayer a preacher knew. A tail, sharp-tipped, swooped in from the light, splattering water from the running cave streams over Geralt.

The Witcher sputtered and lunged at the tail, the blade of his sword slicing into the feather-clad flesh of his opponent, sharp tail end hitting the floor and hot gushes of blood spurting the ground, and Geralt. At the same moment, a talon came, knocking the sword from Geralt’s grip. It clattered, skidding across the slippery cave floor until it hit the foot of one of the beasts.

“Fuck.” Geralt said, for around the 90th time that day. He took the silver dagger from his belt, and spat the mucus that had collected at the back of his throat onto the floor. With a breath, the Witcher jumped up, to meet the Cockatrice’s foul beak. His dagger, held with vice-like grip, lodged itself into the eye of the beast. “How you like that silver, huh?!” He roared, forcing the blade in further, hand sinking past the sizzling eyeball of the beast. Finally, the fucker fell, silver in the brain. Geralt grunted as he bore the weight of the cockatrice’s rooster-lizard bastard head on his shoulder.

A quick tug of the dagger confirmed what he already knew; it was lodged.

Geralt didn’t even bother with saying it this time.

The third beast, which had been sulking over its lost tail, luckily enough, realised that it was along. With a shriek of such ferocity Geralt could hear a ringing in his ear, it warbled its way forward, beak ready to splinter Witcher bones. Geralt let go of the dagger and let himself hit the ground. The monster was unable to stop, even as it unfurled its mighty, bloody talons and scratched them against the cave walls.

With a certainly unpleasant ‘squelch’, the beast’s beak crashed into the gaping eye socket of its kin, before splintering its skull and poking out the other side. It attempted to escape, talons scraping at the floor, Geralt narrowly missing being taken in by the swooping claws. He was quick to roll toward his sword, giving the weapon a squeeze of gratitude before gliding it through the air, slicing up, up, up. He took in a breath as gallons of blood and acids and guts fell about, covering him and his sword and the floor of the cave.

Geralt staggered over to the fucking ‘sweetwaters’ and washed his hands and face off. He also held his mouth under the cold liquid, gulping eagerly. It wasn’t ale, but it was wet. Once his thirst was satiated (to an extent, he fucking needed something stronger), Geralt observed the carnage around him.

He’d killed three of the fuckers for the price of one, lost a silver blade, had a bleeding shoulder, and he still didn’t know what to do about his whole being-in-love-with-Jaskier issue.

“Fuck.” He rasped, before beginning to search the last to be slaughtered beast for its heart. It that wasn’t proof, fuck knows what else he could use.

When he returned to the tavern, the farmer was still there, looking much more merry than he had been before Geralt had taken off. He applauded the Witcher’s entry.

“Ah, the White Wolf!” He exclaimed, smiling at the mutant. Geralt raised an eyebrow, before tossing the heart onto the table. “Oh my, that is big. Not too much trouble, I hope?”

“Three of them. Not one.” Geralt barked, picking up the man’s ale cup and downing its contents. He looked around, suddenly aware that something wasn’t right. “The Bard?”

“Ah, went to bed, not long ‘fore you walked in. Interesting man, very taken by you, Witcher.” The farmhand had a knowing tint to his voice, the kind of tint that made Geralt ready to throw his fists. “Aha, what I mean is, he thinks you’re a… a fine man, yes.”

Geralt stared at the man, holding his hand out. It remained empty. “In case you were wondering, I’m not going to up the price. Money. Now.” He turned his head to the side. The farmhand let out a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I gave it to the bard, you see.”

Geralt was already on his way upstairs, to the room they had rented earlier. There was singing, soft and subdued, leaking from the door. Geralt stood outside for a few moments, listening. It made his heart feel, fluttery? Soft? He wanted to throw up; how dare he be so lovesick?

‘ _And I’m the one left standing,_

_As you brace for your crash landing’_

Jaskier’s rhymes were… always interesting. The Witcher opened the door, already knowing it wouldn’t be locked. The Bard was sat on the bed, wearing _nothing_ but the shirt Geralt had given him a day prior. They both must have shared a shocked look, before Jaskier was quick to throw himself off the bed, head peeking up at his hands clearly worked to pull up his trousers. “Ah, Geralt! I knew you’d be back… Do you want a bath? I could run you one. With salts and salves and camomile; the works! A massage, hmm? Haha, yes!” He stood up suddenly, with a pant.

The trousers were on backwards, and riding low. Geralt adverted his gaze, before closing the door and locking it. “I suppose you want to be robbed, pillaged and murdered in your sleep, hmm?” He said.

Jaskier laughed. “As if anyone would do that if you’re her…”

“But I wasn’t, Jaskier.” Geralt interrupted, taking his shirt off. He heard he pumping of Jaskier’s heart, how his foolish bard’s eyes traced the muscles of his chest and stomach, before dropping lower for just a moment. “What’s this about you taking my coin?”

“Huh?” Jaskier murmured, before shaking his head. “Oh!” He pointed at the bag of coin on the bedside table. “It’s all there. Refz is quite nice, actually! He was very interested in my ballads!” The bard preened, sitting on the bed. Geralt continued to strip, half-listening to his companion.

“How? How did you get a man to give you my coin, before knowing if the job was completed or not?” The Witcher asked. Jaskier seemed to think about the question for a few moments, before shifting positions.

“He asked me how much I trusted you.”

“And?”

“I told him the truth. I told him I’d follow you through an active battleground blind, with the fury of the Gods upon us.” Jaskier’s voice was gentle, delicate, even. As if the words were glass, and could shatter at the first syllable Geralt uttered. The Witcher chose to cradle the words instead. Meaning he stayed silent, thinking.

In his mind, he crossed the room, sweeping the bard into a long, desperate kiss. Tugged down those stupid trousers, felt the fruits of Jaskier’s adoration for him. He’d breath in the bard’s scent, nose in the crook of the human’s neck. Left his marks, his smell over that skin, let the world know just who Jaskier belo- _Stop_ , he growled at himself. He just needed to, to think. Geralt sat himself down on the hard mattress, rolling his punctured shoulder foreward. He would be fine, he knew he would be. He just needed- “Fuck, Jaskier!”

The bard had pressed a cool cloth against the wound, humming gently. Their eyes met, yellow on blue. They were quiet, aside for the hum of his bard that never truly went away. Jaskier upped the pressure on his wound, just a tad, making Geralt hiss. Those lips formed into an amused grin, and Geralt longed to just… close the gap, press their mouths together.

“I had thought, Witcher, that you were going to abandon me here.” Jaskier whispered, lips mere centimetres away from his sensitive ears. _Oh,_ Geralt realised, smelling the heat coming off Jaskier’s face, _he’s angry with me_.

“Jaskier,” he began, attempting to move his body around. Jaskier kept his hand on the cloth over the wound. He wasn’t moving anytime soon, unless he wanted to manhandle his companion. Which, Geralt reasoned with himself, would probably make Jaskier even more upset. “Jaskier, I just needed some time to… plan, think.”

“You didn’t even say goodbye, you beast!” Jaskier exclaimed, hitting Geralt on his good shoulder. It didn’t hurt, but Geralt still winced. “I sing for our supper, telling tales of your greatest achievements and conquests! And you, you stroll out with no regard for my feelings! And you get injured! And you have the gall to lectu-”

Okay, so at it turns out, Geralt was pretty fine with scooping up his bard, and laying them both down, as stinking of monster guts as he was. He held Jaskier against the mattress, and without really thinking about it, he took in a long, harsh breath. He was scenting Jaskier. Actually, properly scenting him, nose flush against the bard’s neck, so tempted to lick and nip and-

Jaskier was quiet. Genuinely, properly quiet. No snoring or humming. Just the quick, soft pulses of breath and a hammering heart. Geralt pulled himself a way, to check Jaskier’s face. The human’s eyes were half-open, lashes fluttering. Geralt watched his own reflection in those sweet, blue eyes. He looked startled.

“Jaskier…” Geralt whispered, running a hand down the bard’s face.

“What the fuck was _that_ Geralt?” His bard replied, hand reflexively landing atop the Witcher’s own.

“I…” Geralt moved suddenly, aware of just how close the two were. He didn’t know the answer really. At least, not an answer for Jaskier. He knew the answer was that he had realised, perhaps only 24 hours ago, that he was in love with his companion, his friend. And now his brain and body were working against him, making him do things before he could concoct a plan. His brain wanted to show the world how Jaskier was his. He wanted to challenge anyone who could even think to hurt his bard.

But that answer was long, and scary.

“I wouldn’t abandon you.” Geralt went for, eventually. It was an answer, but it was true. Hinted at his feelings, his emotional state. “I… I just wanted the extra coin, knew I could get his job over quickly. No point… taking you away from your performance.” He reasoned, mostly with himself. And with that, Geralt lifted himself off the bed, aware of the stains he’d left. “Going for a bath.” He gristled, before leaving a bemused, tired bard to his own devices.

Once in the bath, Geralt felt some of the tension in his body dissolve. Jaskier could have kicked him in the bollocks and the Witcher would have understood. But, instead…. He just went pliant, so soft. Geralt wasn’t stupid. He knew the Bard liked him back.

But he… he couldn’t actually pursue a relationship, could he? Witchers didn’t court. They fucked, paid for the company of a lady or two.

There again, Geralt wasn’t just any Witcher, Jaskier had made that clear. And he couldn’t help but hear that voice in his head tell him, with ferocity, that it was _destiny_. He was ready to kill the man who created the concept of destiny; all it had done was cause him trouble. And Geralt didn’t want it. Mostly. He did want the bard under him again, his scent of oak and berries and mint and all the things that lulled Geralt’s racing mind at night. He wanted those pouting lips caught between his own, turning plump and fat and red with every bruising kiss and nip. He wanted it, so bad.

“Fuck.” Geralt breathed, head lolling against the edge of the tub.

How did courting work again? He was going to have to research.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't even gonna watch the show, let alone write a second chapter i s2g.


	3. Song, Sun and Souls

The realisation that Geralt loved Jaskier had bought about an almost second puberty for the Witcher. He was so aware of _everything_ to do with his bard.

In the morning, whilst Jaskier was still sleeping, soft and quiet against his chest, Geralt swore he could sense that his bard was dreaming about him. That, or he was being entirely vain. Geralt amild to himself none the less. The bard was his, he thought to himself. He felt a purr within himself, something smug and not entirely palpable, _real_. He knew, really that the Bard was his own. The Witcher almost felt bad for feeling so possessive; Jaskier wasn’t a piece of land or new sword that he could just claim and be over with it all.

No; Jaskier was human. Flesh and bone. Relying on him, to an extent. If the Bard turned around and told Geralt he was leaving to join the militia in the South, he knew he could not lay claim over Jaskier’s life. That soft, sun-stroked skin was not his to leave unmarred. Those hands, not his to bring onto a lute, or quill. If those deft fingers were to wrap themselves around a sword, grow bigger from manual labour, rather than strum a gentle melody, Geralt could not prevent it.

Still, there was a section of his brain telling him that Geralt was the owner of his Bard.

It was making him worried, to an extent. And Geralt rarely worried, really. When he did… well, it was due to things like Roach or his swords. Not _humans._ Definitely not bards. His lifestyle wasn’t one that favoured dependents. Not that Jaskier was dependent on him, per se; but he certainly wasn’t built for fighting monsters. The bard couldn’t even walk in weather any less than temperate.

“Hmm.” Geralt placed his hand on the Bard’s cheek. That gave him an idea, finally.

The settlement was… surprisingly okay with his presence, Geralt noted. As it turned out, the farmhand was pretty popular and had spread word fast about the White Wolf who slayed three beasts for the price of one. He wasn’t given a sanding ovation, but a kindly woman did press the handle to a bucket of cow’s milk in his hand and nod. What he was going to do with that much fucking milk, Gods know.

Still, he appreciated the gesture. He could trade it, perhaps?

The local merchants were relatively cheap. There was a misconception that Witchers held a lot of coin about their person; dealers would often attempt to swindle Geralt for extra coin. Depending on his patience, and time, he’d either Axii the fools or shoot them a dirty look. He wouldn’t have to do this here, apparently.

He swapped the milk for half a strawberry tart. Jaskier was always wasting coin on cheeses and fruits and little, dainty treats like this; stuff Geralt hadn’t thought of looting, nevermind spending coin on. But, his bard was frivolous and spent his coin in the same way. The Witcher didn’t mind swapping a few items about, however.

Now that was out the way, Geralt felt the weight of his purse, letting out a contemplative sigh. “It was good to have you for a short while.” He whispered, before heading to the leatherworker.

Jaskier spent the morning in the fields, pencil in his hand, paper on his lap. He was no longer in Geralt’s roughspun shirt, dull as a butter knife; he had retrieved his silks. Much softer on the skin, much more him.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that the black shirt that waded just above his knee was more comfortable than the shifting, sliding sea of sweet colour that clad him. He cast his mind back over to the previous night. Geralt’s hands pinning him against the bed, his face buried in the fold between his shoulder and neck. The inhale, sharp intake. That moment, in the bliss of it all, Jaskier felt his body go slack and his mind clear.

But then Geralt looked like he’d just seen a ghost and all the confusion and dread and downright fear that had left his body all came crashing back into the forefront of his mind. All because, Geralt of Rivia, his White Wolf, had _looked frightened_.

It did cross Jaskier’s mind, for just a few moments, that perhaps Geralt had killed him. It was a stupid thought, really. But the sheer shock in those yellow orbs, the tremble of his lip, minute as it was, did scared Jaskier. His White Wolf had devoured him, claimed his essence for himself.

Now, in the light of a new day, it almost made Jaskier laugh. Geralt would never hurt him! The Witcher just simply… needed the smell? There was probably an explanation for it all. Besides, it had given him a taste of what being under the mutant would feel like, how those muscles would contract and give as they held him.

It was the closest he’d get to being loved back, he realised.

Jaskier rested his head against a tree stump and strummed his fingers against the fine-tuned strings of his lute. A sombre melody reached into the air, dispersing at a shake of the bard’s head. “That won’t do.” He spoke gently, before strumming once again, fingers poised to perfection.

“ _Geralt, Geralt, heart in a vault_

_Many a-maiden’s hearts you have halt_

_Geralt, Geralt, I have let you exalt_

_It is my heart, Oh Geralt, you have in assault”_

The bard plucked away, words awkwardly hung upon and manipulated. Still, his assumed it sounded well enough to suit his heart ache. He wasn’t bitter, though; oh no. If Geralt wished to spend his meagre earnings on women in brothels, Jaskier wouldn’t breathe a word. He would more than love to slap the money out the stupid mutant’s hand, kiss his stupid mutant lips and whisper, so quiet that even his stupid mutant hearing would only catch the breath of ‘just take me already, Geralt’.

Still, the bard knew where he stood, mostly, with the Witcher. Annoying sidekick, left in taverns when the danger grew near. Barker. Friend, Jaskier’s mind drew briefly. Friend. They were friends, Jaskier would insist it until Geralt agreed, in defeat if nothing else. They were friends.

Bestest friends in the whole wide world, actually. No matter what Geralt said, miserable bastard as he were. Jaskier strummed the same melody as before, the chords skimming across the field like. It sounded fresh. “Good, good.” The bard nodded to himself. “Good. Now…” The bard mouthed a few words, lips moulding into their shapes and spaces. He tapped the side of the lute once, twice, a third time, each within a second of each other.

‘ _Give me the strength,_

_Oh Goddess of love,_

_Your cruel grasp upon me_

_Must be curse enough_

_Give me strength,_

_To let him go._

_My heart can’t be his,_

_Say it’s not so- oh, oh!_

_Geralt, Geralt, keep my heart in vault_

_Geralt, you have me begging you for mercy_

_In my work I exalt you, I can’t fault you_

_Geralt, oh why can’t you see-ee-ee-ee-ah!’_

Jaskier came to a sudden stop, placing the lute down. He panted slightly, though he didn’t really understand why. He knew his feelings, clear as water; but Jaskier loved to love people. Falling in love was his specialty. He could do it in moments, lose himself in the delicate beauty of a lady, or the harsh contours of a man. He could offer his love, too. In song or pleasure. It was his speciality. It never affected him, his love for the people around him. He loved, unrequited or not.

So why was he so upset at the thought of losing out on this one?

He had spent more time with Geralt than most others on Earth. Days, wandering the land, sharing meals, a bed, clothes. The bed thing had been something of an unspoken agreement; Geralt would get on the bed first, and Jaskier would go where there was room. And it was in those moments that Jaskier could entertain his fantasies; Geralt’s chest as his pillow, those thick, dangerous arms about his waist. Yes; Geralt was an excellent cuddler. He’d been asleep when it first happened, but after a handful of times it just seemed like normality. To Jaskier, anyway. Geralt had no idea.

Jaskier supposed it was a little creepy? He knew the Witcher would not hold him so if he were conscious… but it kept him warm, feeling safe. Happy. Surely, that was a positive?

He was conflicted.

Jaskier picked up his lute once more, letting his fingers dance along the leather strap. He ought to see about getting it embroided, he thought, perhaps with dandelions and lilies… To show his new adventurous spirit.

He played the same melody once more, before clearing his throat. He had become too lax when it came to his vocal exercises. In the future, he would demand from Geralt fifteen minutes in the morning to do his warm-ups!

With a quick clear once more, the bard stroked his nimble fingers against the strings of his beloved instrument.

_‘Give me the strength,_

_Oh Goddess of love,_

_Your cruel grasp upon me_

_Must be curse enough…_

_His eyes are like midnight,_

_They scare and thrill me so._

_Take ahold of my senses,_

_Leave me defenceless…_

_Is this how love will leave her mark?’_

Jaskier lost himself to the music of it all, eyes closing. The world around him felt distant, far from his body. Which is why he shit himself when a gruff voice could be heard directly behind him.

“That’s… pretty.” Geralt had muttered, an awkward look in his eye. Jaskier threw the lute in the air, screaming and scrambling up, bare feet compacting the soil beneath his toes.

“Fuck me, Geralt!” He panted, as the Witcher caught the instrument with one hand. Jaskier wiped his face before taking the instrument back, flinging it over his shoulder, strap running diagonally across his chest. The bard let out another startled pant, before narrowing his eyes. “You bastard, sneaking up on me like that.”

“I didn’t sneak.” Geralt replied, plainly. Jaskier took a moment to take the Witcher in. He was wearing that shirt, the one that he had just spent two days wearing like an obscene dress. He filled it completely, nothing hanging or drooping, no ending at the knees or revelation of the collar bone. Beyond the shirt, Geralt’s hair was slightly dishevelled, loose from his tie. It suited the Witcher well, when his hair wasn’t sprayed with blood and viscous. He also had a backpack with him, he held it with two fingers.

Geralt spotted the bard eyeing the bag, and he placed it on the trunk. “Here.” Nothing else. Jaskier shrugged, brow lifted. Geralt watched him for a few second. “Look inside the bag.” He then added.

Jasker sat on the trunk, glancing at the pack and then up at Geralt. The Witcher had the slightest, smallest blossom of red about his cheeks. Coming down with a cold, maybe? Jaskier hoped not.

The bard undid the strings the held the tanned leather shut, before reaching in and feeling… more leather. “What in the…” Jaskier pulled the item out, casting it into the sunlight. “A boot.”

“There’s another.”

“Oh, you don’t _say_.” Jaskier replied, before studying the boot. The length of it would reach his mid-calf, teetering out into two semi-cirles that met. The leather itself was soft, its insides lined with thing trimmings of wool. _Soft_ , Jaskier thought, _comfortable_. The sole was wood, but was once again lined with wool. Its gap, down the middle until the just before the space where his toes would sit, was lined with red silk. Jaskier couldn’t help but gasp when he ran his fingers across it. The straps that would hold the boots in place had been branded, intricately, with a wolf’s head. The same wolf head that Geralt had on his pendant.

Jaskier looked up at that, mouth agape. He tried to speak, but what was there to say?

Geralt waited, drinking in his bard’s reaction. After about a minute of silence, he grunted and took the boot out of Jaskier’s shaking hands. He knelt down, at the feet of his bard. He took the ankle of his left foot and gentle brushed off any dirt. With a deft movement, Geralt adorned the boot onto Jaskier’s foot, before working the straps up his calf. He did not meet Jaskier’s eyes, though he felt the cornflour blue boring into his scalp.

“Other foot.” He gruffed, still not looking up. Jaskier let out a breath that had been stuck to his lungs, before fumbling about the bag. He felt a boot drop into his expecting hand two moments later. And he repeated his earlier actions. Once the second boot was strapped in place, Geralt looked up, warm eyes meeting the Bard’s. “To replace the ones that tore.” He said, as though it was an adequate explanation.

“… Wh… when? How?” Jaskier stammered, head tilting upwards as Geralt stood and wiped the dirt of his trousers. There was a silence, before Geralt let out a thoughtful ‘hmm’. “… Well?”

“People will work fast for a local hero.” Geralt remarked, before pulling a displeased face. “And the fucking coin, too.” He suddenly looked self-conscious, like he was unsure of himself. “Are they acceptable?” He asked, averting his gaze.

“Acceptable?” Jaskier jumped up, wrapping his arms around the Witcher’s neck. “They’re beautiful, thank you!” He hummed in the man’s ear. Geralt stood there for a moment, arms at his side like a wilting plant. Then, he put one around the Bard’s waist.

And they held that position. Geralt, sniffing freely at his Bard. And Jaskier, basking in the willing arm around his body. They held it, and held it, until Geralt finally cleared his throat. “I promised Roach a groom.” He said, breaking the contact. Jaskier tried not to look disappointed, his gaze landing on a patch of daisies in the distance.

“Alright.” He muttered, as Geralt walked past him, back towards the settlement.

“Jaskier.” The Bard’s head shot up straight, turning to face the Witcher. The two locked eye again, and he noticed how light Geralt’s had become, softened with what appeared to be affection.

“Yes, Geralt?” He asked, wincing at how high his voice was.

“Check the side pockets.” He stated, before continuing on. Jaskier watched him leave, past the farmhouse, down the lane, until his great figure could be seen no more. Once the Witcher had vanished, Jaskier stepped back towards the stump, noting how soft the boots were against the coarse skin of his heel. He place himself down, mindful of the lute slung across his back.

The backpack wasn’t new; it was were Geralt would store the blankets they used, Assumedly, they were being washed by some young lady, too foolish to know that the Witcher wasn’t interested. Jaskier undid the side pocket to the left, taking out something wrapped in cloth. He unwrapped the gift, before giving a delighted gasp.

Strawberry tart.

The bard licked his lips, realising just how little he had eaten that day. He took a bit, feverishly, groaning at the sweet juices and crisp pastry. “Oh, by the Gods!” He wailed, before wrapping what was left back up. Some things were meant to be savoured. “What else could he have possibly gotten me?” Jaskier muttered to himself, checking the right pocket. He felt a rock, attached to a chain. “What?”

Jaskier pulled it out, revealing it to the early afternoon light. It wasn’t just a rock, really. It appeared to be some type of gem; translucent, nearly, with a blue tinge. Within the gem, a buttercup, suspended in the centre. At first, Jaskier thought it was the work of magic. Then, on closer inspection, the bard could see where the gem had been cut open and then, somehow, stuck together.

He felt tears prick at his eyes, though he didn’t allow them to fall. Jaskier placed the necklace in his pocket, before settling down on the stump. He let out a laugh.

“Geralt of Rivia, what are you even trying to do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i s2g


	4. Kissing, cuddling, and closing paragraphs

Geralt enjoyed the moments of quiet he was able to obtain whilst with Roach. She was behaving, allowing him to brush out her mane and scrape the mud off her hooves.

“I’m in love with Jaskier.” He told her. Roach gave an uninterested shake of her head, before continuing to munch on an apple he had given her. Geralt placed his head on hers. “And I spent damn-near all my coin on him.”

Not that he minded. Jaskier needed the new boots. Geralt mays well ensure it’s something his bard would actually wear; besides, the use of his pendant as a pattern seemed to quell the voice in his head, telling him to take the bard and keep him out of harm’s way. Keep him in bed, under the covers, warm and waiting.

Geralt coughed, ridding the images from his mind. Instead, he focused on Roach, running his fingers through her mane and kissing her muzzle. “You’re still my favourite.”

That earned him a playful butt on the head. “Oi.” He warned, no malice behind his words. “Jaskier will be riding you more often now.” He announced. Roach didn’t respond, just finishing her apple. “But I’ll still leave him at the side of the road if he sings about the Fishmonger’s fucking Daughter one more time.”

When Jaskier returned to the tavern, it was with purpose. “Today, I will perform my new ballad!” He announced, earning a jeer from a drunken old man with one single tooth and a cross-eyed stare from the tavern owner. “It will be marvellous!”

“Is ‘bout your Witcher?” The Farmhand appeared from seemingly nowhere. Jaskier sat down, watching the man sit next on the stool next to him. “Nice boots, they are. Made local.” He inspected the boots closer, leaning down.

Jaskier shifted slightly, peering down at the man. “Geralt had them done for me.” He spoke gently.

“I can sees that, his mark.” The farmhand sat up straight once more. “Pretty.”

“… Thanks.” Jaskier felt the back of his neck, rubbing it.

“Welcome.” The local replied, before a thick silence set over them. Jaskier tapped his finger on the table, avoiding the man’s constant stare.

The staring continued.

Jaskier avoided it. Tapping.

Tapping.

Staring. Avoiding.

Tapping…

“… Okaaaay, I’m going to go up to my room now.” He said, before making a break for it. He entered the room with the key, and took in a sigh of relief.

He fished the pendent Geralt had gotten him, holding it up against the light that flooded the room. “Beautiful.” He whispered. Geralt’s behaviour was being rather odd; not that he minded all that much; Geralt and oddness were very close in companionship. He quickly placed the pendant over his head, sighing happily. It felt nice to be appreciated.

And, honestly, Jaskier enjoyed being treated now and then.

The boots were practical, yes; brilliantly thought out to match Jaskier’s style whilst also being great to treks across the continent and more. They were a practical, platonical gift… to save Geralt from listening to Jaskier’s constant complaints!

_He’s marked them as his, fool!_

“Shhh!” The bard replied to the voice in his head. It was all practical, that was all. Nothing more, nothing less. He ran his fingers over the brandings, imagined the straps around his neck rather than his calves. The thought made him shiver, and curl his fingers up, resting on the bed. Geralt would never do that, Jaskier reasoned. The design was innocuous enough… only giving people with too close a wandering eye to guess just what the symbol meant… as to say, it meant nothing.

Just a design choice made by a man with no sense of design.

The pendant that had made its home in the centre on his collar bones felt heavier, somehow. Like it was collecting each and every embarrassing thought he had about the Witcher. Rediculous, really, that a soft conversation between the two and a couple of gifts had left the bard so undone.

Jaskier rested himself on the bed, deciding that a feigned headache was the best course of action. He didn’t care that Geralt’s Witcher-y sense probably gave him away…

He needed time to process.

“Don’t give me horseshit and pretend it’s pudding.” Geralt growled lowly, pulse on his forehead threatening to erupt. The tavern was cold with silence, save the furied growls of the Witcher and the soft scramblings of breath from the man caught in Geralt’s glare.

“Don’t know wha’ you mean, issa good deal!” The man whimpered, a dark stain forming on his roughspun trousers. “Let go, Sir!” A chorus of people made a noise of agreement to let the man go. Geralt looked around, before grunting.

He had a tired bard upstairs who was pretending to be ill in favour of playing for a queen. He best not upset the locals, if he didn’t want an upset mate- “Hmm.” He grunted, annoyed with himself. He let the man go, shaking his head. “Food and ale to the room.” He told the tavern owner. The room remained breathless until the moment Geralt figured he could no longer be seen going up the stairs.

The fucking door to their room was still unlocked. Geralt raised an eyebrow at Jaskier, who was hanging upside down off the bed. Jaskier met his eyes and shifted a little.

“What happened downstairs?” He asked, curious. Geralt stared him down for a few moments, before throwing a grunt out from between his lips. Jaskier waited a few seconds before gasping. “oh, _really?!_ How intriguing! Geralt, you must tell me more!” The bard exclaimed, before growing quiet.

Geralt sat on the bed, pulling the bard upright effortlessly. “Sarcasm makes you look… sarcastic.”

“Such a way with words, Geralt.” Jaskier let himself lean on the Witcher. “Tell me already. You mustn’t keep a bard waiting for a story, lest you want them to follow you through life.” He absently played with the pendant around his neck. The quickly familiar feeling that Geralt carried around whenever he saw Jaskier purred with content, _happy mate._

“I always finish my stories. You can just never be satisfied.” He replied gently. Jaskier gasped, before letting out a shrug.

“I suppose you’re right… tell me?” He fluttered his eyelashes and Geralt felt something akin to lightening flick through him. He’d kill for Jaskier. He’d kill _men_ for Jaskier. Brutally.

“I was getting you… a hat made. Stupid bastard charged me extra coin for ‘decoration’. Went to get it from him and it’s two bits of rags sewn together with a fucking grass stain. Got the fucking coin back.”

Jaskier stared at him for a few moments, before laughing. Geralt looked taken aback. “What’s funny?” He asked.

“Why are you decking me out in clothing?” Jaskier asked, giggling. “Is it some sort of… Witcher protection thing?”

Geralt let a thoughtful hmm. Jaskier was pretty spot on, to be fair. Just, not very clued on as to why he had a whole ‘witcher protection thing’ happening in the first place. He studied the bard over, slender neck and twitching hands and trembling body. He wanted to wrap that body in silk, adorn him with sleek jewels.

He’d settle for practical travelling gear, however.

Geralt had spent decades admiring beautiful people. Royals who slaughtered races of people for the biggest diamonds; women who went blind trying to turn their eyes the perfect shade of blue. That thought always made Geralt wince and think about what could have been with his own mutant eyes. He’d seen princes slit throats of companions for love, seen fathers sell their daughters and mothers sell their bodies and men…

Men fear him, in so many ways. But not his bard.

Geralt continued to watch him, those twitching fingers, always playing a melody, silent or otherwise.

Jaskier’s eyes, they were… soft. And blue, that perfect shade ladies had mutilated themselves for… And they were staring straight at him, and those beautiful, flush lips were saying something, closing, saying something, something some-

“Will you listen, you oaf!” He exclaimed, hitting Geralt’s arm. “Here I am, making a fool out of myself and you don’t even pay attention! This is why we find it hard to make friends, Geralt, he really need to work on you communica- umgh!”

Geralt learned three things that day:

One, never trust a man who charges extra for grass stains.

Two, Jaskier could be his greatest worry and care in the world, for now, and the bard would still make himself so insufferable he wanted to kill him.

And three, the best way to subside the irritating aspect of Jaskier, as well as those murderous thoughts, were to kiss the bard. And it was awkward, Geralt realised as his shoulder began to ache from leaning over him. And it was clumsy, as their noses ducked into one another. And it was loud, as they broke for air and met again, lips catching one another. And it was painful, teeth crashing, and soft, hand on cheek. And it was magic, he could feel Jaskier wanted to be his.

And it was mutual, Geralt would be Jaskier’s.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whimpered once the kisses were done “I’m… was that… are we real?”

“Hmm,” he replied “real enough.” He kissed the bard again, grunting as he felt two slender hands push him away. “Jaskier?”

The bard was smiling at him, hands on his shoulders. Geralt went in for another kiss but stopped when he felt the arms of his love stay put. He made a confused noise, staring into Jaskier’s eyes, sniffing the air for fear. Jaskier’s heartbeat was fast, but not horrendously so; he knew Jaskier’s heart at its fastest, when the bard was frightened or hurt or angry. He knew it during the bard’s good dreams, and his bad ones, too.

“Geralt, you’re gorgeous.” Jaskier whispered, running one hand up to his cheek. “But can you explain to me just what the fuck is going on?”

Oh. Geralt looked away for a few moments, composing what he would say in his head. “Realised I love you.”

Jaskier seemed to turn into butter. He kissed Geralt, quick and easy. “Took you long enough, you oaf.” He whispered, words against Geralt’s lips. “Which is to say, I love you, too.” Geralt took Jaskier into his arms and pulled the bard up, onto his lap.

“I think I’m going to be possessive.” Geralt warned, lips against Jaskier’s skin.

“I think I’m going to like it.” The two met again in a wondrous kiss, hands exploring, caressing skin.

Geralt couldn’t believe his luck.

Things remained relatively similar between the two. Jaskier would sing and sing and sing. Geralt would fight monsters. They’d share a bed, and a bath, and Geralt would stalk the shadows as Jaskier performed for local drunks.

But then, at night, he’d kiss his bard. Talk about their plans, where they would head next.

And his bard would kiss back, whisper romantic nothings in his ear, sit on his lap.

And sometimes, just sometimes, Geralt would let Jaskier ride on Roach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lost steam, didn't I?
> 
> s2g
> 
> Probably gonna write some more Geraskier stuff.

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't even gonna watch the show I s2g.


End file.
